


Return

by Embracingtheplotbunnies



Series: New Targaryen Dynasty [5]
Category: game of thrones
Genre: Arranged Marriages, Companion Piece, F/M, Family, R plus L equals J, Romance, Slow Burn, lots of flashbacks, non graphic injury, post Battle for the Dawn, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 05:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11224242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embracingtheplotbunnies/pseuds/Embracingtheplotbunnies
Summary: How the lives of our favorite characters proceed after the Battle of the Dawn and they slowly begin to rebuild and reorganize their lives. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, Arya is making a new friend, and Jon isn't quite sure where he fits into their new reality. Daenerys is slowly settling into her new role as a ruler and trying to destroy the last few reminders of Jon in the Red Keep even as she begins to examine political marriages and her not-so-latent feelings for a former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Even though she miraculously has her ever after, she's not sure it will be so happy.Alternatively, how they put aside their own uncertainties and preconceptions of what it really means to be rulers to take a chance on their still tentative relationship. Companion piece to Stay.





	Return

**Author's Note:**

> So I wasn't actually intending to publish this. I wrote this before I wrote Eight Times-it was actually the first incarnation of Eight Times-but I didn't think I was actually going to post it because I liked Eight Times better as a starting out of the series. However, a couple people asked for a companion piece to Stay, and that's what this is-so here it is. Essentially slow burn. (Fun fact: in my original Jonerys fic, the one that most of my stories are based off of, it took over 125,000 words before they had their first kiss). But I may need to make a couple edits to Stay so it makes sense in the timeline.
> 
> It doesn't hurt that I wrote this a month ago so I just had to read it over and make some edits; I've been amazingly busy this last week and I haven't had a whole lot of time to write new things. But I know you all want new stuff because there aren't anywhere near enough Jonerys fics out there. 
> 
> Flashbacks are denoted by ~. I don't know if you can get italics on here so; there are thoughts etc that should probably be in italics but aren't so keep that in mind as well. 
> 
> As per usual, I don't own Game of Thrones or its characters; all rights go to GRR Martin and HBO.
> 
> As for what I changed from canon...Viserion is injured in the wight hunt but doesn't die, Sansa is Lady of Winterfell...I think that's about it. Enjoy! 
> 
> As always, find me on tumblr at blue-roses-in-a-wall-of-ice. I might post drabbles and aesthetics there later on and I already post headcanons.

Four Weeks Post Battle for the Dawn

 

Jon watched from the ramparts of Winterfell as the last of the Queen’s retinue left the castle’s main keep, starting the long journey back to King’s Landing and the castle that waited for them there. 

Sansa shifted next to him, fiddling with the silver headed pin on the lapel of her cape as if debating whether or not to take it off-even though the world had only been back to normal for a couple of weeks, the weather was already climbing to a more comfortable winter temperature. To them it felt like summer. “She’ll be all right.” 

“Of course,” he replied. It was true. She would be. She’d go back to King’s Landing with her two remaining dragons in tow and a host of soldiers and sit upon the throne she’d won. She’d rule, for a year or twenty or fifty; she’d marry someone from a prominent family, and in a few years the realm would celebrate the birth of a prince or princess. She would bring peace and prosperity; the country was tired of war. Peacetime seemed like a distant memory. “King’s Landing still needs to be rebuilt.” 

Arya sighed, leaning against the stone and watching the last of the knights ride off. The royal carriage had long since disappeared, just behind the first three rows of guards. “So...what do we do now?”

“I suppose we keep everyone fed until the refugees leave.” They still thronged the Great Hall (he suspected they wanted the security of square and regular meals), but they were beginning to leave on horseback or on foot, in families or alone. Home was home, and at some point it called to everyone. It had called to him for so many years now he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to finally be back, surrounded by the people he loved and just as many ghosts. “We’ll need to take stock for the rest of the winter, check the state of the Northern forces, see about getting the Wall rebuilt…” The list seemed endless; one problem after another. But they were all alive-and that, if nothing else, was something to be grateful for. 

He knew Sansa was looking at him and he strategically looked away because he knew she would try to talk about what had just happened-and if anything, that was the last thing he wanted to think about, much less put into words. “Lord Tyrion invited us back to King’s Landing for a memorial in a few months, once we’re all more well adjusted. I could always use you here by my side-I’ll need a liasion, at least until I find a suitable husband. He signed the annulment papers last night-”

He shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but you’re the Lady of Winterfell. As you rightfully should be. The Night’s Watch is in shambles. I know I swear them no oaths but...most of them were men I knew and loved. The least I can do to honor their memory is to ensure that nothing like this ever happens again.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “It’ll only be for a month or two-not long.” 

“Good. We’ve been apart long enough, don’t you think?”

Arya nodded. “A lone wolf is weak, but a pack survives.” 

“What about you? What are you going to do?”

She shrugged. “Stay here, obviously. Maybe go with Jon. I’ve always wanted to see the Wall.” Not to mention that if she stayed with Sansa their relationship would sour. They’d only been reunited weeks before so they were still enjoying each other’s company, but they were still as different as night and day and it wouldn’t take much for their opinions to clash. “Make myself useful.” 

Sansa smirked. “What about Gendry?”

“What about him?”

“You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with him lately-”

Arya didn’t move, but something about her demeanor changed-like ice solidifying under a crust of snow. “He’s just a friend.”

“Only just?”

“Yes. None of us have had good luck with love, so I won’t risk it.” She glanced pointedly at Jon but he pretended not to notice.  
They lapsed into a silence as chilly as the morning around them-the Queen had been up at the crack of dawn to ensure they covered distance before dark, which meant the Starks had gotten up early as well to see them off. It seemed only fair, after everything they’d done. “If you’d really wanted to...I mean, I hope you didn’t stay here because you need to protect us. If that’s the case, you’re stupider than I thought.” 

“King’s Landing isn’t my place even if I was needed there,” he shot back, pulling his cape a little closer around himself even though he wasn’t cold. “I could never get used to the warmth.” He turned on his heel and walked inside. He loved his sisters-no, cousins-dearly, but every so often there were days when he couldn’t understand how they could possibly be related because they saw things so differently than he did. 

They saw possibilities where there was nothing there, and the sooner he went back to remembering that there weren’t the happier he’d be. 

 

“Did Lord Snow consent to be the North liaison?”

“Of course not. What do you think? He wouldn’t even let me legitimize him.” Daenerys poured herself another glass of wine.  
Normally she would only drink a glass or two when the social circumstances required it but in the cramped and enclosed carriage there wasn’t really much else to do. 

She wanted to be high in the air, soaring above them all on Drogon’s back. But Drogon was dead, and Viserion and Rhaegal had become increasingly skittish around her, as if they somehow blamed her for their brother’s death. 

“He wanted to be Jon Stark,” she added as she poured herself another glass. “And I couldn’t let him, because-”

“He’s not a Stark,” Tyrion replied. “At least, not just. He’s also part Targaryen-”

"And in the end, it made all of the difference.” She wondered if things would be different if they didn’t share blood-even though she knew they probably wouldn’t be. “He’s ashamed of it.” 

“Give him time to warm to the idea.” Tyrion poured himself another glass as well. “It’s a significant change. It’s a wonder he’s handled it as well as he has.” 

She shrugged, knowing she wasn’t being fair. It was impossible for her to imagine not being a Targaryen because it had been a constant in her life-it had been the one thing she’d been certain about, what she’d used as a sword to defend herself against the world, what she’d used to justify her meteoric rise to power and everything she’d had to do to get there-but many still viewed the name unfavorably. “He wants to spend time with his family, I understand-but the Targaryen name won’t continue on without him.”

Tyrion scoffed. “The Velaryons have an eligible son only a few years older than you. It would make an advantageous match; they were always close bannermen of the Targaryens, and it would be the next best thing-it may even be better in the long run to...dilute the blood a bit. Are you more concerned with that or with the fact that he didn’t drop everything and follow you-the one disciple you wanted more than anyone else?”

Her skin burned and she suddenly felt irrationally angry at Tyrion for so obviously thinking she was a whiny child. “I don’t want disciples-” 

“It’s not surprising. You’re still quite young yourself, and so is he. You fell into the same trap that all young people do, at one point or another-you let your guard down and allowed him to love you and you to love him-and you’re hurt by how things turned out.” 

She shook her head. “I won’t force him to make a choice he doesn’t want to make. He doesn’t approve of the family tradition. That’s all there is to it.” Tyrion laughed, and she gave him a sharp glance. “What is it?” 

“I never expected, when I took this position, that I would have to advise you on love,” he replied. “Arranging political marriages I can handle, but true affairs of the heart are not my forte, I’m afraid.” 

“Obviously. I don’t need advice.” She turned to look out the window at the countryside rolling past them on either side-long green fields, peppered here and there with a small farmhouse with a roof that was slowly collapsing. “Not on this, at least. What’s finished is finished.”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to get over him quite as easily as you were able to get over Daario, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

She resisted the urge to refill her glass. “All right then. Tell me about this Velaryon. Is he quite as awful as some of the other men I’ve been forced to consider marrying?”

“Not at all. He’s very scholarly. You’ll hardly ever see him.” He saw that she was still looking out the window and sighed. “I told you this once before, but I think you should hear it again now: he wasn’t the first to love you, my queen, and he won’t be the last. There will be others-perhaps none quite so pretty as he was, but others who will share your intelligence and your spirit as he did. Soon he’ll be nothing more than a name, only remembered once in awhile.” They both knew this wouldn’t be true, for many reasons, but for the moment she was glad to pretend. 

“I’ve stopped thinking about him already,” she said, pushing her empty wineglass away and pulling her chair a bit closer to the table that separated them. And she resolved that would be the case. Everything she’d ever wanted was finally in her reach, but the true challenges were still to come; conquering was easy, but ruling a people she’d never known was much harder. She couldn’t afford to let anything to distract her from that, especially her nephew. He’d made his choice, and she’d made hers.  
And she would certainly never pine after him. The very idea was ridiculous. 

 

~  
When she saw him for the first time, her eyebrows rose because there was something strangely familiar about him-as though they’d once met in a past life, because she was sure they hadn’t met in this one. She’d remember a face like that, she was sure of it. She’d heard of him-the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, murdered by his own men and suddenly (miraculously, some might say, or magically) come back from the dead raving about an army of the undead lurking behind the Wall. She wondered what kinds of stories he’d heard about her-that she was a savior or a tyrant, an angel or a demon who killed virgins to keep herself young, a child or a queen. The rightful heir or yet another usurper.  
They looked each other over for a moment, taking the other’s worth, and she was sure that neither of them was the kind of person the other had been expecting.  
~

 

Ten Weeks post Battle For the Dawn

“Where would you like the extra food and grain stores, Lord Snow?”

“Over there.” Jon indicated the most solid of Castle Black’s new storage rooms; it was the only one that had four walls, a floor, and a roof. Nearly all of the castles along the Wall’s length had been destroyed when it fell, and they had to start rebuilding from scratch. It was a daunting task, but he’d enlisted the help of all the able bodied men he could find in the neighboring villages and they’d been making surprisingly good time considering the circumstances. 

He liked the work, though it was certainly labor intensive. It kept him busy from sunup to sundown, rubbing shoulders with men (and Arya) all day long and then gathering around the giant bonfires at night to share stories, only to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep and wake up again with the sun to start all over again. It was productive. It kept him busy. It kept him from having nightmares, or from thinking too hard about anything in particular. 

Arya tapped him on the shoulder with more force than necessary. “Are you awake in there?”

“Of course.” He rubbed his shoulder; she had a strong punch, even when she wasn’t using her full strength. 

“Sansa set another raven.” She rolled her eyes. “She wants her weekly update. You haven’t been ignoring her letters, have you?”

“Of course not. The last two days have just been extremely busy.” He wasn’t wrong-he hadn’t gotten to sleep until at least midnight the night before and he’d been up by the time the sun inched over the horizon. 

“Or is it because she wants us to come back?”

He pulled a bag of salt over one shoulder and slammed it into a corner with a little more force than necessary, as men moved around him-trying to give him the space his title deserved. Jon Snow, bastard son of Ned Stark and Bringer of Dawn. What would they say if they knew he was also the key to Robert’s Rebellion and had a better claim to the throne than the Queen who sat it? “I’ve told her we’ll only be a few more weeks. The Night’s Watch will be able to take care of things.” 

Arya shrugged. “You know I’m never judgmental of you, right?” 

“Of course not. It’ll be nice to adjust to court life again, won’t it?” They both laughed. Like they’d ever adjust to the new world order. More than anyone else, they’d been misplaced by the War of the Five Kings-and now they didn’t really belong anywhere else. Certainly not at the most powerful court in the world.  
But here, the closest place to a home he’d had besides Winterfell and the place where he’d been safe and surrounded by friends, it seemed like maybe he’d be able to find a place to belong somewhere. Just not in King’s Landing. 

 

“Where would you like all of his old clothes, your Majesty?”

“Arrange for them to go Flea Bottom, Alia. Allow the peasants to use them as they will.” Her handmaiden curtsied and left with a box full of doublets-red and black, utterly unremarkable except for one thing: the single silver direwolves pinned near to the collar, now lying in a pile on the other side of the room. She planned to send them back north, in case Jon wanted them. She certainly didn’t. 

The room that Jon had occupied for his short stay in the capital had lain untouched for weeks, until Tyrion had finally cornered her in her study the night before and told her in no uncertain terms that it had to be cleaned out and turned back into a bedroom for visiting dignitaries. It had been weeks, and while she knew she’d secretly been holding out hope that Jon would return, he hadn’t. So all of his things had to go.

She attacked the problem clinically. It wasn’t hard because she knew that Jon had never really felt at home in King’s Landing-his room was devoid of personality. All of his clothes had been neatly folded, his shoes lined up next to the doorway, a single book on strategy sitting on the bed with a piece of wine stained paper stuck between its pages to mark where he’d left off. She’d taken it for herself, shoving it in the back of her wardrobe even if she never intended to read it. 

Occasionally she allowed herself to be sentimental. Every once in a great while. 

She distanced herself from the proceedings as much as she could. Everything belonged to someone else, someone she’d never met before-the doublets, the capes in the closet, the shoes, even the bedsheets and the pillowcases where she knew he’d slept. He’d never been here. He’d never walked through the door, or sat down at the desk, or looked out the window, or climbed in the bed. 

Eventually the bed was stripped bare of its coverings, empty hangers hung inside the wardrobe, and sheets of blank paper and new cases of unused ink standing on the shelves of the writing desk. It looked empty but she didn’t see it that way; the very air itself felt tainted with the memory of what had been. 

As much as she hated to admit it, Tyrion was right. It wasn’t as easy to let go of Jon as it had been to let go of Daario-she kept thinking of the way he’d looked in each doublet Alia took out of the room, the candlelight sparkling in his dark eyes; his kisses, his soft touch, the way he seemed to understand her when no one else could. He hadn’t been a vacation, something she returned to again and again at the end of the day; there had been no constancy in their relationship-only confusion, often frustration, and sweet, innocent, desire. 

She wondered if his clothes still smelled like him. 

She dealt with that problem clinically too-Jon was reserved only for the very late nights and the early mornings, when she awoke blinking in the sunlight and imagined for a quick second until reality came crashing in that she’d woken up next to him. Eventually she trained herself to think about him less and less, until he was more of a shadow than a memory-but never quite forgotten. She was never quite as rid of him as she wanted to be. 

And eventually, all that remained was the pile of direwolf pins, sparkling up at her like a promise she hadn’t been able to keep.  
She sent them back to him with a note, written in a moment of weakness: All my love and thanks. 

 

~  
The snow was blowing practically horizontally into his eyes, but he could find his way around well enough to see the light coming out of the makeshift dragon shelter, positioned as far away from Castle Black as it could be without seeming rude. The snow crunched beneath his boots and the stars felt cold on his shoulders, even as he reached the single door (the back of the shelter was open to the wind so the dragons could come and go as they pleased) and knocked once, light spilling out on him from a glassless window. 

There was a moment of silence and then the door opened quietly. The shelter was empty except for the would be queen, dressed in one of her ridiculous outfits that looked like they’d been designed in a much warmer climate by someone who had no idea what the North was like. She regarded him curiously, even though he was sure she was colder than she let on. She pulled her cape a little more tightly around herself, ignoring the fact that it barely came down to her knees. “What is it, Lord Snow?” 

“A raven.” He handed her the letter that had just arrived from Tyrion Lannister-he recognized the disorganized scrawl. 

“Thank you.” She opened it with the edge of her fingernail and leaned against the edge of the doorway, worrying the edge of the paper between her fingertips. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t. He’ll only be angry; I told him I’d be staying in the North longer than we had planned.” 

He shook his head, still not believing she hadn’t changed her mind yet. “You don’t need to do this, you know.”

“You won't stop talking about wight. I'm tired of giving you the benefit of the doubt," she replied, not even looking at him. Her eyes were skimming over the letter again, probably already composing a reply. “I don’t intend to lose in King’s Landing either.” 

He nodded. “Well, I’ll see you in the morning then, your Highness.” He turned to leave and he was halfway out the door before she called him back. 

“Would you mind terribly walking me back to the castle?” In the half light it almost looked like she batted her eyelashes-but that was impossible because she was above that-and they were only casual acquaintances, nothing more. “We should take this opportunity to go over last minute instructions for tomorrow.” 

“Of course.” 

They talked all the way back to Castle Black and he escorted her to the rooms she’d been given upon arrival-sending furious glances at everyone he passed by, daring anyone to bring it up later.  
~

 

Twelve Weeks Post Battle for the Dawn

The package arrived just after breakfast. 

At first Jon thought it was another letter from Sansa, wondering when they’d come back to Winterfell, and he was going to tell Arya to throw it away because they’d be leaving in only a couple of hours-but the box she was holding was too big to be a simple letter, though there was a card on top in Sansa’s neat handwriting. This came a couple of days ago, it read. I thought you might like to see it. 

“What is it?” Arya asked curiously, practically hanging over his shoulder. The makeshift dining tent bustled around them, moving in the wind off the Wall that covered them all in blowing snow. 

“Nothing,” he muttered, trying to shift it away from her-but she kept looking so he eventually opened it anyway. 

A small box lay inside, stamped with the Targaryens’ blood red sigil. His heart dropped quickly, thrumming in his chest like a low drone. His brain registered that Arya was saying something but he couldn’t hear what as he opened the box carefully, using utmost caution to lift the lid and peer inside. 

Inside was another tiny note-and a heap of silver direwolf pins. He recognized them immediately, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what to do with them: should he shove them across the table or throw them away or drop them all into his pocket? He read the note, almost picturing her hand curled around the quill, forming each letter neatly and precisely, and touched the topmost pin gently-afraid to admit even to himself that he worried it would break under his touch. But it didn’t; it was strong and immovable, just like the Starks had always been. 

He shut the box again and slipped it, note and all, into his pocket before Arya could read it. “Come on-we still need to pack.”

She followed him back upstairs, but he could practically feel the curiosity radiating off of her in waves-gods, he would pay for this later, the next time he wanted a secret from her. 

But she looked unfazed. “It was from the Queen, wasn’t it?”

“Why do you say that?”

She smirked. “You don’t look like that when anyone else sends you mail-though of course, no one else does.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Really? What do I look like?”

She shrugged. “Like you’re a lot cleverer than you really are.” She ducked out from beneath his grasp and raced upstairs, her laughter echoing down the stairwell like a lost relic from a bygone era. He didn’t think he’d ever heard her laugh like that, ever since they were kids. 

He didn’t think he could fault her too much for making fun of his nonexistent love life if it made her happy-they all needed something to smile about these days.

 

“More petitioners, your Grace.” 

“Send them in,” she replied, adjusting her seat on the throne. It wasn’t as impressive as she would have liked, but then again it wasn’t the Iron Throne-which had been melted down to create swords and daggers for the White Walker invasion. They’d had to make do with what they had-a tall wooden throne that looked older than everyone she’d ever met. There was something satisfying about this seat and the power it held; it meant that no one would ever underestimate her again, that she would never again have to pretend she was less intelligent or less passionate than she actually was. 

She was a queen, no longer a child-tested in both fire and ice. Now all that was left to do was rule. 

The petitioner walked inside-a member of the Night’s Watch, judging from the sorry state of his black cloak. The sight was so jarring, such an immediate reminder of another (ex) member of the Night’s Watch she’d once known, that it took her a moment to remember where she was. Focus, she thought. You're not a child. 

Her smile was only slightly forced, springing into place exactly when called for. “Sworn brother. What is your grievance?"

The Ranger’s smile was sweet and slow, like honey. “Your Grace, the Night’s Watch needs a small loan to finish the rest of the repairs on Castle Black and to begin the construction of the new Wall-”

“You should be receiving taxes from the kingdoms.”

“Yes, but we still need money to finish the castle itself. Because it’s not part of the Wall…”

She sighed, trying not to say what she was thinking (which was wondering why he hadn’t thought to bring it up with the Master of Coin instead of her). “I will speak to Lord Rowan about how much the treasury can spare.” 

He bowed so low his forehead almost touched his kneecaps. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Of course. You and your sworn brothers give your lives so tirelessly for the safety of the realm-this is the least I can do.” The two Unsullied manning the doorway ushered him out, and the door to her audience chamber swung shut behind her. She allowed the composure to leak out of her and she leaned back against the makeshift throne, feeling the events of the last few weeks catch up with her-meeting after meeting after petitioner after adoring peasant and all the while Tyrion reminding her that she would have to find a suitable husband as soon as possible…

But this was the life she’d wanted and dreamt about for as long as she could dream. She would get used to it soon. 

She straightened up again and smiled reassuringly at her guards. “Send the next one in please.”

 

~  
“I have to say, I don’t think I’d like to live here. It’s too drafty.” 

He laughed, leaning against the stone wall of the castle and watching Sansa far below, deep in conversation with a castle servant. “You get used to the drafts-and the cold.”

“I can’t stand the cold.” 

“I can’t stand the heat.” 

“Only because you’ve never really experienced it. You’ve never been to Lys, have you? Beautiful beaches, white sand that falls beneath your toes, warm blue water that you could float in all day and never get bored-and pillow houses renowned through all of Westeros. I take it you haven’t been to one of those in a long time, have you?” Even through the darkness she could tell that he was blushing like a virgin, even though she was sure he wasn’t. No one with hair like that stayed a virgin past his sixteenth nameday, bastard or not. 

“Perhaps you’re just not used to the cold,” he replied, skillfully changing the subject. “You’ve never been on top of the Wall at midnight, so close to the sky you could touch it, the cold air around you and patterns of light dancing in the air and reflecting off the ice? The stars shine so much brighter in the dark-they take on a life of their own.” 

“I hadn’t pegged you as a lover of stars.”

“I hadn’t pegged you as a lover of beaches-or leisure time.” 

She laughed. “Then what did you see when you saw me? What were you expecting?”

He smirked, folding his arms across his chest. “Someone a bit taller, wearing chainmail and carrying a sword bigger than she was-like Queen Visenya, perhaps.” 

“Women have other weapons, Jon Snow. They use words instead of swords.” She was tempted to add ‘and what’s between their legs’ but she didn’t want to make him any more skittish than he already was. “But I do wish I was a little bit taller.” 

“You don’t need to be. It helps your image; people underestimate you until you prove them wrong.”

“You’re not so different yourself. No one expected you to come back to life, did they?”

He didn’t answer for a moment and she worried he’d offended him. “What did you think I would be like?”

“You’d have shorter hair, obviously. And you’d be burlier-you’d look like you could smash a man’s head in. You’ve never done that, have you?” 

He laughed out loud and shook his head. “I can’t say that I have. I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

“Oh, you didn’t disappoint me.” They lapsed into silence for a moment and she voiced the question she hadn't been sure she would ask until that moment. “However, I can see the need for a rudimentary knowledge of self defense. So...if you ever have a free night, perhaps sometime you could teach me.” The words rushed out before she could stop them. 

“Of course, your Highness-”

“Dany.”

“What?”

“Call me Dany. If we’re going to be sparring partners, we may as well be familiar.”  
~

 

Sixteen Weeks Post Battle for the Dawn

“Maybe I’ll go to the Citadel in Oldtown.”

"To do what?” Arya scoffed. They were seated on the floor in Sansa’s bedroom-the bedroom that had once belonged to Ned and Catelyn, playing a card game while Sansa undid her braids in front of her vanity. 

He pretended to be offended. “I could earn my chain.”

“You’d be rubbish at it,” Sansa replied. “Besides, where would you go? Some meager holdfast on a rainy island somewhere in the Westerlands? You’re a Stark, Jon. Surely you have more dignity than that?”

He rolled his eyes. “It was just a joke.” 

“I would have thought you’d want to stay away from oaths from now on?” They all laughed. 

Sansa was worrying the edge of her lip. “What is it?”

She cleared her throat and put on a deceptively bright smile. “There are rumors that the Queen is looking to find a husband.”

“Ah. Well, that’s wonderful.” 

“Right.” 

“I’m sure she’ll find a very nice man.”

“Of course.” 

The silence was so awkward it almost felt painful. 

 

Corlys Velaryon wasn’t as awful as she’d been expecting. He was only about ten years older than she was, he had almost all of his teeth, and he didn’t make one lewd comment the entire time they talked. She could almost seeing herself being happy with him: ruling together, raising their children, maybe one day even showing him her dragons and seeing if he could ride Rhaegal as well as Jon once had. 

He was also a homosexual but Tyrion insisted that wouldn't be an issue. Which was true; after the Battle, love had become more of a duty than a pleasure. She no longer dreamed of her dark haired lover (although a primal part of her insisted that she’d already met him). She would be a perfectly loyal wife. 

But she couldn’t help that every time she kissed him, more out of duty than anything else, she imagined another’s face. 

 

~  
She wouldn’t stop pacing. 

He’d never seen her righteously angry like this; yes, he’d seen her disgruntled, overtired, and annoyed at everyone else’s general incompetence. But she’d never been angry. Not like this. 

“The nerve-”

“Your Highness-” Fuck. “Dany, calm down-”

“-innocents massacred at her own trial? What kind of a queen does that?” 

“Dany.” He put his hands on her shoulders and she stopped in her tracks. He wondered if he’d done something wrong-but she didn’t look upset, just confused. “Please. We have to focus.” 

She shook her head, still not looking at him. “A madwoman is ruling my people.” She pulled away and paced to the window, looking out at the snow covered mountain peaks of the Vale-they were on their way to rendezvous with the rest of the Targaryen forces on Dragonstone, but some days it seemed to Jon that the traveling would never end. “She’s killing them, and she won’t hesitate to do it again...and I can’t stop her.”

“You will-but you won’t do anyone any good if you do something rash without a plan. Besides, there are bigger wars to come.”  
She sighed again and for just a second she let her mask drop-in that instant, she looked very much like a girl, still playing at a queen, and she’d realized for the first time that she couldn’t back down now. “There’s only one war that matters-the war between the living and the dead. And like it or not, it’s nearly upon us.”  
~

 

Twenty Weeks Post the Battle of the Dawn

Arya dropped the bomb during dinner. 

“The Queen wants to legitimize Gendry: he fought well during the War for the Dawn, and-as much as she probably hates to admit it-she thinks a Baratheon leader might put down the rebellions in the Stormlands. A Baratheon has lived in Storm’s End since the conquest, and that hasn’t changed for the bannermen.” 

"Oh.” Jon could hear Sansa’s confusion, and a little bit of sadness-they’d gotten used to Gendry puttering around the castle’s forge, creating swords and helmets that were more works of art than they were weapons. Once he’d made Arya a helmet in the shape of a wolf’s head, with fine silver detailing for the fur and a lower detachment carved in the shape of bared teeth. Arya loved it-whenever she sparred with Jon, which was every night now (it felt strange to not have a reason to fight other than the sheer joy of it and he wanted to keep his skill up)-she wore it as a matter of practice. Besides, Gendry was soft spoken and easygoing and Jon always felt that he was easy to talk to; they never had to talk about anything of consequence, but they could still talk. He was surprised to find that he’d miss him. “Well, that’s wonderful for him. I’m sure he’s excited.”

Arya picked at her meat and took another sip of wine. “I’m not so sure. He doesn’t seem that excited. I think in a way, he’ll miss being a bastard-it’s hard to have that same kind of anonymity when you’re lord of a kingdom.” 

Jon had never thought of it that way. Robb had never been able to blend into a crowd-not that he’d ever wanted to. Maybe it had been nice sometimes...but it didn’t matter now, because he got whispers and looks wherever he went these days, since he’d been on the battlefield wielding a sword of pure fire, and he’d been the one that had plunged that same sword through the Night King’s heart. 

He almost hadn’t been fast enough. 

She cleared her throat, finishing her thought in a rush. “I want to go with him.” 

Sansa almost choked on her wine and Jon dropped his knife. 

Arya smiled nervously. “He’ll need some friends, where he’s going. Besides, Winterfell doesn’t need another Stark.”

“Of course it does,” Sansa replied, but the words were a whisper and an afterthought. The more Jon thought about it, it didn't. Even if none of this had happened, Robb would have married a lady and that would have been that. He and his siblings would have dispersed to the edges of the world and married their respective partners-and then they might never have seen each other again. Certainly they would never have holed up in Winterfell for almost half a year, afraid to let the others out of their sight for too long. 

He felt the notion as clearly as if the words were spelled out for him: it was his warning. Soon he would have to move on too. But where could he go, where his past wouldn’t haunt him, where no one would know his face and heard tales of his bravery? Where he wouldn’t be Azor Ahai or Jaehaerys Targaryen or Ned Stark’s bastard son or even the man who tamed the dragon queen? 

He wasn’t sure he knew who Jon Snow was anymore. Sansa and Arya were setting their lives in order, moving on-and yet, he still felt like he was stuck in the past. 

Arya started talking again. “If it’s too much of a problem, I can stay here-”

“No,” he replied honestly, forcing himself to get the words out. “No, you deserve to go with him. Be happy.” 

When she looked at him, her eyes were sad. “You can always come with us. You’ve never seen the Stormlands-”

"No, that’s all right.” At the moment, seeing the Stormlands was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. He was happy for Arya though, wasn’t he? Of course he was. The world was safe now, safer than it had been in a long time. They were safe. “I’ll come later, when you’re settled in.” 

There was a moment of awkward silence as they pushed their food around on their plates and tried their best not to look at each other. 

“This isn’t a forever separation, you know,” Arya added, obviously trying to defuse the tension. “We’ll still see each other. I’ll come back, from time to time.” 

It was strange-when they were younger, she and Sansa would have done anything to get rid of each other and now they were desperate for any reason that would keep them together. 

“We’re very happy for you,” Sansa said. And it was true. They were. There was just another feeling tucked away inside of that happiness that Jon hadn’t expected to find there-a pain, like loss, like they were losing her all over again.  
*

Arya and Gendry left a week and a half later, in a caravan loaded down with all of the provisions and arms that Winterfell could spare even though they insisted they didn’t need so much. Sansa, Jon, and the few servants that remained from the original days of the Stark lords in Winterfell all gathered to see her off. 

She threw her arms around Jon right after she said her goodbyes to Sansa, just like she had when she was still a little girl-although she was quite a bit taller now. “Write to me and tell me whatever you decide to do,” she muttered into the back of his neck. “Remember, if worst comes to worst your claim is better than hers.” 

He seriously couldn’t imagine walking into the Red Keep and demanding his throne back. “Yes, I’m sure that would go over well. Besides, I’ll find someone new soon.” 

She didn’t look convinced, but Gendry was already calling her back and all she could do was squeeze him tightly once more before she had to leave. “Write soon!” With that, she mounted her horse, he mounted his, and they were gone. She didn’t look back once, and all too soon she was just a smudge in the morning light. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding; they should have stayed at Winterfell before. Did that still hold true now? 

Finally, Sansa cleared her throat and tapped him on the shoulder. “Lord Tyrion would like to know if we’ll be attending the ball in King’s Landing to celebrate the rebuilding efforts.” 

He didn’t have to think about it. “Tell him that you’ll be going, but I won’t be.” 

 

Twenty Five Weeks post Battle For the Dawn

As the sun crept in from under the blinds, Dany realized she’d forgotten to sleep again. That happened more and more often these days as her workload seemed to pile up to almost astronomical heights; there was always someone to talk to or something to organize, pages of numbers to look over or political prisoners to judge. Sleep was an afterthought at best and a distraction at worst. 

Tyrion opened the door without knocking and set a cup of tea and a stack of letters down in front of her. If he noticed the dark circles under her eyes-and she was sure he did-he didn’t mention it. “The last of the responses came for the ball, your Highness.” 

She tried not to yawn and blow her cover. “Who’s coming?”

“Lord Robin Arryn from the Vale, a delegation from the Westerlands-” Here he shivered. “Nasty people, the Lannisport Lannisters. You’ll like them. A few of the younger Sand Snakes. Lady Alarie Hightower’s two cousins-”

“Mace Tyrell’s widow, I understand.”

“-and Lady Sansa Stark, of Winterfell.” 

Only one name. “Only Lady Sansa?” 

“Yes-though Arya Stark will attend the event with Gendry Waters pending his legitimization.” He had to know what she was asking, but he stubbornly kept her guessing until she finally just spit out the words.

“But no Jon Snow.”

“No. No Jon Snow.” 

She sighed. “He’s being a coward. He won’t be able to run from his name forever.” 

“No one knows, outside the two of us and the Starks-and who’ll really tell anyone else? As long as we keep it quiet, no one else will have to know. Besides, perhaps it’s a good thing-we don’t need to worry about him making threats against the throne-”

She almost laughed at the idea of him summoning his army and trekking all the way to King’s Landing to demand his throne, simply because it was such a ludicrous thought and he wouldn’t even want it in the first place. “He’s perfectly entitled to his own actions.” 

“And Corlys Velaryon isn’t an awful consolation prize.”

She was growing to hate Corlys Velaryon.

 

~  
The sun had long since set and still they continued to strategize, moving the pieces carved in the shape of each of the great houses around the small map of Westeros more out of a desire for fun than anything else, because without calling a meeting of her advisors they technically couldn’t decide anything anyways. It didn’t matter, anyway-the plan was set in stone and by the end of the next day either the Red Keep would be hers or she would be dead. There would be no in between.

Finally Jon set aside the Tyrell rose he’d been fiddling with and looked around the large room. The master bedroom was one of the biggest in the castle, with a massive four poster bed draped in red and black blankets and tassels and large windows that looked out on the crashing sea-no matter where she went on the island she could always hear the water. It anchored her, somehow, to the task she was about to perform-as it must have anchored Aegon the Conqueror, years before during their own conquest. “Are you ready?”

“I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?” Strictly speaking, it wasn’t true-she was as ready as she’d ever been, and the world knew it-the air was filled with an almost palpable excitement and everyone could feel it. She’d even gotten Jon to smile four times today-a record that was almost unheard of. 

But she wasn’t a goddess, and sometimes she still worried that, despite Varys’s assurances to the contrary, it wouldn’t be as easy as they thought to swoop in on dragonback and burn Cersei Lannister where she stood. 

“Yes, I’m ready.” She looked up at the ceiling and wondered if this was where her mother had given birth; where she had lain in a puddle of her own blood, bleeding out while her newborn child took her first breaths. “And after that…”

“You rule, we defeat the White Walkers, and…”

“What will you do after this?” Jon didn’t talk about himself much and she was always trying to coax it out of him; bits and pieces about his life and what he would do once the world they lived in was stable once again. If it ever was. 

He was quiet, considering, for a minute. That was one of the things that Dany most loved about him-he wouldn’t give a slapped together answer. He would think it through and really wonder about it, the same way that she did. “I’ve always wanted to travel. I’ve never been to Essos.” 

She thought about the Free Cities-the wide harbors of Pentos and the beaches of Lys, the sharp smells of Myr and the grass of a thousand colors in the Dothraki Sea. “You’d like it there-although it may be too warm for your tastes.” 

“I’ll take my chances.” 

They didn’t mention that their futures wouldn’t include each other. It wasn’t even worth imagining; she could never marry a bastard and he had no wish to be a king, even if she’d could. Their paths had intersected, but only for a fleeting moment-a moment for them to ponder what could have been, in a different life. 

But there was one thing she could do that would always make the back of his neck color. “I hear Lys has the best pleasure houses in the known world.” 

Sure enough, his neck turned red.  
~

 

Dany waited at the foot of the high dais while the guests arrived, wearing a new red dress and a genuine smile as she welcomed one guest after another-Nymeria Martell in her bright yellows, Gendry and Arya, Margaery and Olenna Tyrell, and a host of other people she didn’t know-but Tyrion somehow got her through the introductions. I’ll give him one last chance, she decided. If he doesn’t come tonight, then I’ll know. I’ll propose to Corlys Velaryon and that will be that. 

Her heart sank a little farther with every guest that entered the throne room who didn’t wear the heavy cloaks of the North-and then finally Sansa breezed inside, looking mature in a new golden dress dotted with soft pearls and a leaping direwolf embroidered just below her neck. She smiled at her and nodded in acknowledgment, but she felt her eyes slip to the spot beside her-the empty spot. 

She made sure nothing changed in her face, made sure her smile didn’t wobble in the slightest, and she sealed away the part of her heart that Jon had taken with him when she went away, forever doomed to be with him. 

That had been his last chance; there would be no others. 

 

Thirty Five Weeks post Battle for the Dawn

Sansa came back from King’s Landing flushed and happy, full of stories about who was married and who was pregnant and who had died of natural causes. Jon didn’t know any of the people she was talking about but he didn’t care; Sansa was radiant in her happiness in a way she hadn’t been since he’d known her. She regaled him with stories of meals that lasted all night and a bed as soft as silk-and how regal Dany had looked, watching the congregation from the high dais carefully. She’d dined with a different person every night, including Sansa, and she relayed everything they’d talked about-from the economic recovery of the North to the moral recovery of its people, most of whom had been badly displaced. 

“She asked about you,” Sansa said casually, as her handmaids unpacked her trunk. “She wondered if you’d gone traveling anywhere yet.” 

“What did she say when you told her I hadn’t?” He tried not to sound interested. 

She shrugged, infuriatingly. “What was I supposed to do? I told her you were busy. But you know that you won’t be able to avoid her forever? Besides, I think you were meant to be king.”

He raised an eyebrow as she plopped down on her bed and opened her book to the last page she’d left off in, deliberately ignoring him. “Why would you think that? I don’t want to be king-look how well it went for Robert, Joffrey, Tommen, even the Targaryens?”

"They all wanted to be king-but you don’t. That might make all the difference.” The servants bundled away the last of her things and she patted the bed beside her. “Come, sit down.” Reluctantly he did so, careful to keep as much space between them as he could because it didn’t seem right-he was the older one and he was supposed to be advising her, not the other way around. “What do you think would have happened if Father had been the one who took the throne after Robert’s Rebellion? He could have, you know. He just refused.” 

“The power would have corrupted him, the way it corrupted everyone else.” He imagined growing up in the Red Keep, but the thought of it was so odd that he couldn’t picture it. 

“But he would have been a good ruler. He cared about the people he ruled.” 

“So did Robert.”

“Yes, but he was never as...understanding of the common people as Father was.” 

“Are you saying that the Queen doesn’t have an understanding of the common people?”

“Of course not. Not that it makes her a bad queen-she’s trying to, that much is for certain...but she didn’t grow up here. She doesn’t know this people. She doesn’t know their gods, their cultures and traditions. Lord Tyrion can help her, but even his expertise can only go so far-at the end of the day, they need someone who wasn’t a lordling, who wasn’t raised in the public eye, someone who knows the kingdom because it’s all they've ever known.” She hesitated. “You’re frightened, aren’t you?” 

The accusation wasn’t what he’d expected her to say and he couldn't help feeling taken aback by it. “Of what?”

“That you wouldn’t be a good king.” 

“It’s not my place.”

“Of course it is.” She sighed. “If your mother was still alive, I’m sure she’d want you to take the throne.” 

She was full of surprises today. “Oh? Why do you think that?”

“Because a mother wants the best for her children-and like it or not, Jon, as much as I’ll hate to see you leave, I’m beginning to think that King’s Landing is the only place where you’ll truly be happy.”

“I can’t.”

Now she was beginning to look frustrated. “And why not?”

He looked away. "I love her-and she loves me."

“Which is exactly why-”

“No. It makes her vulnerable.”

She shook her head. “That's idiotic, Jon. You’re giving up your happily ever after for something that’s not even true.” 

“You weren’t there that day. You didn’t see her almost die-”

“So you’re willing to condemn you and her to a life of unhappiness because you’re frightened?” She shook her head. “I thought you were better than that, Jon. I thought you were braver. Leaving her is not the honorable thing to do. It’s not thoughtful; it’s just going to make you both miserable.” She scooted forward in her chair and looked him in the eye carefully. “I can tell you what will happen. She’ll marry a man from a semi powerful family and bear his children. They’ll grow old together, but she will never love him-not the way she loves you. By chance, maybe you'll find a wife-maybe you'll go to the farthest edges of the world and escape your destiny. Maybe you'll convince yourself that you are happy with the way your life is. But you’ll be lying to yourself, lying every time you see her eyes in your wet dreams instead of your wife’s, every time you wished your children had her blonde hair, every time your heart jumps irrationally in your chest because you see her with her husband and you know it should be you by her side. That’s not brave, Jon. It’s foolish. It’s fear. And by the time you realize it, it will be too late for you. This kind of love doesn't make you weak. It makes you both stronger. Do you know what people would do for a love like that? What I would do?”

She shook her head again. “You’ve always been self sacrificing, Jon, but it’s time to take a stand. It’s time to do something for yourself. It’s time to claim your own happiness. She could easily force you to marry her, but she’s not-she’s giving you the choice. Don’t choose wrong. Don’t compromise. Not on something like this. 

“Let yourself be happy. Let her be happy. Embrace the future you want to have, not the one you think you deserve. We almost never understand our true worth.”

“Fighting the Night King was never this simple.”

She shrugged. “It’s easy to die. It’s harder to be brave.” 

 

That night she dreamt of dragons. 

She hadn’t had the dream in a long time-the dream of the black dragon with scales chased with red, who reminded her so much of Drogon that it hurt, but he couldn’t be Drogon because Drogon had never been looked at her in exactly that way. In fact, the eyes almost reminded her of Jon’s-but that was impossible, because Jon was a world away and she would never see him again. 

There were other dragons too-a massive dragon with scales the color of the Narrow Sea at nightfall, when she watched the waves moving outside her window when she couldn’t sleep; a dragon with scales of burnished pink; a small and lithe dragon with scales the color of a summer sky; and a dragon with skin the color of spilled blood and heated flames to match. They flocked to her, surrounding her with their scales until she could feel the heat of them through her thin white nightgown. And all the while the black dragon watched with pride in his eyes. 

She woke sure of what she had to do-but before she could do anything, her handmaid brought her a raven from Winterfell with her plate of fruit. 

Jon was coming. 

 

~  
It was their last night alive and past the time to feel guilty about what was right and what was wrong. If none of it would matter by the time the sun rose, who would care who he lay with now if everyone would be dead anyway? 

Her body was soft and warm beneath all of her furs-some of them hers, some of them lent from Sansa because she’d packed precious little against the Northern chill. Not that the furs made much of a difference now; they were tangled with his against the door, skin to skin just as their wearers were. 

She splayed her fingers out across his heart and he imagined she could feel it beating out from beneath her palm, charged with the adrenaline in the air and the cold air raging outside as he trailed kisses down the side of her collarbone. There was something fierce in her eyes when she looked up at him, daring him to lose himself within her as she was sure to do the same. Daring him to break the final boundaries they’d erected between them-pointless, meaningless boundaries that could be broken with a touch, a caress, a word. 

So he did. 

They said it more times than he could count-I love you-because it was the only thing they could say, the only thing that would convey their feelings before the White Walkers defeated them in battle come the dawn. If they could have nothing else-not a family, a future, a wedding in fancy clothes in the great Sept of Baelor-at least they could have this. 

They could have each other, completely and totally, if only once.  
~

 

Sansa practically pushed him out the keep’s doors without much more than the clothes on his back, urging him to get going before the fall air turned sharp again. He took his fastest horse and a bag of golden dragons and suddenly he found himself riding south before he could remember why he was doing it. 

He knew that Sansa thought it was very romantic, the kind of thing she would have loved to read about when she was younger and still believed in pure and innocent love.

He wondered if this was a mistake. He didn’t know the first thing about ruling a country; he hadn’t had any experience. But his heart was still racing, and something about it felt right-he was doing something, he was being useful, and for the first time in as long as he could remember he was making a decision because he wanted to-not because it was right or wrong but because it was what he wanted to do. How afraid had he been all this time to claim his birthright-not because he didn’t have a birthright to claim, but because he did? 

But this wasn’t just about who his mother and father happened to be. It was also equally about her, because he’d never been able to shut her out entirely. 

It made him sound stupid and hormonal but some night she could swear he still heard her voice, whispering in the darkness of his bedroom and enticing him with stories about a house with a red door and a lemon tree, and a city of abandoned treasures from a thousand conquered cultures. He remembered the way the moonlight had lit up her hair, the way her eyes looked when she smiled, the way she spoke when she was around others and had to act like she was utterly fearless and the way she did when they were alone, the few times she had let her guard down enough to reveal her inner vulnerabilities around him. He could almost feel the weight of her tears on the linen of his shirt the day after the Battle of the Dawn, while Drogon’s corpse still lay in the snow, eyes staring and yet unseeing. He'd done everything he could to tell himself no, that she couldn’t possibly be his. 

I love you. I have always loved you, he thought.

He was willing to wear a crown for her; to face the tumult of legitimization and all that came with it for her. He only hoped that it would be enough to make up for these long weeks of silence. 

 

~  
Her blood covered his hands. He couldn’t sleep while his hands were still covered in dried blood. 

Jon left his sleeping roll-which was little more than a blanket of finely woven leaves and moss covered by furs from creatures he couldn’t begin to name (he thought one might have been an aurochs and the other a polar bear, but the Children had long since ceased to surprise him) and left the cave, following the drip of running water to a river of dark water buried far beneath the earth. The water was clear and cold, but it turned red when he scrubbed furiously to rub off all the blood. 

He knew what he had to do, of course. The world was changing now that the Night’s King was dead and they were somehow still alive and everything was different. He had to think-not just what would be best for him, but what would be best for his siblings and especially his queen. Because she was still his Queen; the Targaryen blood in his veins didn’t change that. She’d fought and bled for the throne she could now sit on; she deserved it and wanted it far more than he did. 

He loved her. 

The force of the realization almost knocked him over; he had to sit down hard because his entire body had inexplicably started shaking. When had this happened? When had this feelings towards her gone from affectionate to protective to desperate for one more night, one more touch, to this deep, passionate love? It wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt before, not even for Ygritte. He didn’t just love her for the sex, although that was lovely as well. He loved her for who she was, completely and totally. He loved her for every conversation they’d ever had, every time she’d made him smile and then counted it as a personal victory, every time she’d let her mask down around him and he saw the girl beneath; her ethereal beauty to be sure, but her personality most of all. And he wanted her-not just to bring to bed, but to wed in the godswood outside Winterfell and raise children together. Especially since he’d almost lost her. 

The images flashed together in his mind-sunlight glittering off snow, the sing of steel, the red of blood and the violet of her eyes, the way the Night King had crumpled and been blown away into a million bits of ice. She’d felt so insubstantial in his arms-and that had been what scared him, more than anything else. Because Dany was lovely, vibrant, brilliant. The husk he’d held in his arms was not. 

He was still hesitant to leave her now that the worst was past and she was sleeping off her wounds under the Children’s careful and precise care. Every time he looked at her he felt that sharp and sudden terror; it frightened him more than he could say, even though the fear was only a fraction of what it had once been. He had been the one who was supposed to die, not her. He would have done anything to keep her safe and well. 

And this, truly, was why he had to leave her. Not just because he wasn’t cut out to be a king but because he loved her far too much-and she loved him the same way. They were each other’s weaknesses and each other’s greatest loves. He couldn’t allow her to be that vulnerable-and he didn’t think he could let himself be that vulnerable either. Theirs was a kingdom of lions and vipers-now more than ever. She had to be strong and stand tall, no matter how they felt to the contrary. He couldn’t let their love make them weak. 

As he lay down beside her again and listened to her even breathing, which was now the most beautiful sound in the world to him, he knew that it was the last gift he could give her. It would hurt, but it was the right decision for both of them. Love didn’t factor into the equation. 

“I love you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered but she didn’t wake up; he let her sleep long into the next day, while he lay awake thinking.  
~

 

Dany was reading through a heavy sheaf of papers that had long since stopped making sense when Tyrion barged into her solar (without knocking) and said “A horse just arrived in the stable yard-”

She ran-even though she was old enough to know better, even though she was the most powerful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, even though she didn’t even have shoes-down one hallway after another, winding her way through the corridors of the castle and sidestepping frightened servants, until she reached the door to the courtyard and threw it open. The grass was lush and springy under her feet and she wondered how long it had been since she’d gone barefoot. 

She saw him before he saw her-he was talking with a stable boy, giving him instructions on how to properly take care of his horse after the long journey, and for a moment she drank him in. She was surprised to see how much he’d changed in the last few months-he was leaner and his arms were corded with even more muscle, suggesting hard labor, but in all of the ways that mattered he was still the man that she remembered. 

“Jon.” The word slipped out before she could stop it and even so he heard her. 

She met his eyes for only a moment-and then he ran up to her and stopped a few feet away, looking her over carefully and nervously eyeing her Queensguard in the doorway behind her. “Is it all right if I-”

She threw her arms around him before he could protest. It took him a while but eventually he hugged her back, and his touch felt so right that she almost cried. He was strong and sturdy and...here, more real and present than any of her dreams-and something told her he wouldn’t be leaving, at least not for a very long time. “Why are you here? I thought you’d decided to stay in Winterfell,” she said. 

“Sansa had to talk some sense into me,” he replied, trailing his fingers through her hair.

“Oh?” The smile that came to her voice was entirely natural. “And how did she do that?”

He shrugged. “It’s what my mother would have wanted.” His laugh rumbled through her, his arms holding her firmly but also tenderly. 

There would be things to work out later, of course-Jon would have to be legitimized and then there would be fallout to deal with, especially from the Faith. There would be a wedding, and farther down the road, children. There would be sleepless nights and tears and days of pure, blissful happiness. 

But for now she could almost imagine she was part of a fairy tale, in the arms of her prince. 

It had taken them so long to get to this point, but now finally, after all this time, she could see that it had been worth it because she could manage to be a queen and not compromise her own happiness. It was a new prospect, the idea of the two of them as a power couple and not a figment of her imagination-but it also came with endless, limitless possibilities. 

And as the weak fall sunshine beat down on their heads and she looked up at him, in this time of peace and prosperity, every one of them seemed possible.


End file.
